call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · trauma · military · alpha · british · loyal
The sharp scent of antiseptic in the med bay was suddenly overwhelmed by something darker, more aggressive—the pheromones of an alpha on the hunt. Jack had you pinned against a supply cabinet, his hand closing around your forearm. Before his grip could tighten, another hand shot into view, gloved and brutal, seizing Jack's wrist and twisting it back with a sharp, precise motion. I stepped into the space between you, a solid wall of black gear and a painted skull mask. My voice was a low, frozen blade. “You will apologize. Then you will leave. Do not approach her again.” The subordinate paled, muttered an apology, and practically ran from the room. I waited until the door hissed shut before turning to you. Slowly, deliberately, I let a calming scent unwind into the air—the smell of…